


Poetry

by enigmalea



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alley Sex, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Poetry, Book: The Tale of the Champion - Varric Tethras, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Poetry readings, Semi-Public Sex, The Hanged Man (Dragon Age), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: Varric first notices her at a poetry reading, Cassandra Pentaghast, an enigmatic beauty who seems to be showing up to a hole-in-the-wall coffee and tea shop just to listen to him read... not poetry. He doesn't know what to do about the fact thoughts of her consume him, so he does the only thing a sane dwarf can. He runs... and when she tracks him down at The Hanged Man, he knows nothing good can come of it."Everyone who goes to those sorts of things is a writer. No other reason to be there," he says with a shrug. The passed-out man beside her snorts and reaches for her arm. She slides further down the bench, gives the man another look, and then moves so that she's sitting next to Varric rather than across from him."I came for the coffee," she answers, and Varric chuckles. The coffee is mediocre at best, but he's not going to challenge it. "I stayed because you were reading.""Maybe the first time, but you kept coming back."





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I want to apologize in advance for subjecting you to Varric's (my) bad poetry. Neither of us are poets.
> 
> * * *
> 
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>  **prompt me:** [how to](https://enigmalea.tumblr.com/post/185117840754) ☆ [submit](https://enigmalea.tumblr.com/ask) ☆ [read on tumblr](https://enigmalea.tumblr.com/tagged/my-drabbles) ☆ [read on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/frillycakes)
> 
>  **join me @:** [The Hanged Man Discord](https://discord.gg/U4Y5uCR) for DA fanfic readers, writers, and betas! (Please note the server is NSFW and 18+ only.)

He doesn't do poetry, but he comes every Thursday night to this hole-in-the-wall coffee and tea bar to open mic night, anyway, because he has an understanding with the audience; he's the only one who can read prose, short three minute stories or parts of stories, excerpts from longer works that probably won't ever see the light of day. It's stuff that'll probably be removed by editors or is too experimental or just… won't sell.

He doesn't do poetry, but the first time he sees her, he wishes he did. She's watching from the third table back, hand clutching a mug of coffee like her life depends on it. She's enraptured by his every word, leaning across the table like she's about to leap across it, brown eyes wide, lips parted slightly. She's drinking him in like a woman parched, and he stumbles over his words, loses his place, and can't seem to figure out where he left off. He ends up reading the same passage again and barely finishes before his time is up.

When she stands up to leave, he realizes, she's human and tall and he's dwarven and not, and if that wasn't enough reason for him to give up when he catches her name, he knows then he should walk away. Cassandra Pentaghast. He knows her last name from his day job; they're nobles and rich. The kind of people who look down on dwarven surface merchants and who consider the coffee shop he's in slumming it, even though it's one of the nicer places he frequents.

But as she's leaving, she looks over her shoulder at him and smirks and his chest does something weird, something it hasn't done since Bianca. And yeah, Bianca's the other reason he should give it up, because even though they're not something, they kind of still are, and he's always been a one-woman man. Sort of. Sex doesn't count, but this woman… this one would. It's not fair to Bianca to have something other than them that matters when she doesn't have the opportunity for the same thing with Whatshisname.

She comes back the next week and the next and the next.

At first, he thinks she must be there for someone else, but he watches her watching the other writers and nothing seems to get her attention as much as him. He can't figure out why, no matter how hard he tries. He's not that good. Sure, he's published, but that's not a measure of talent, really. Besides, his books don't sell as well as he likes to pretend they do. They're barely above smut, and sometimes, they're not even that.

The harder he tries to figure it out, the more difficult it is for him to think about anything else. He has a backlog of stuff to read, but it's slowly dwindling because he just can't seem to finish anything new. His new characters are all tall, slim women who look dangerously lithe like they could probably choke him out with their thighs. They've got short-black hair and smoldering kohl-lined chocolate eyes. All she'd have to do is read it or listen to it and there'd be no doubt who it was.

So, he reads his last piece and doesn't come back, choosing to spend his Thursdays at The Hanged Man drowning his sorrows and losing his profits.

It's a month before she walks into the Hanged Man, tight black jeans clinging and a plain white shirt that looks like she probably bought it from Practical Tees R Us in a 12 pack hugging, and Varric freezes, eyes wide, hand clenching his tankard and wonders how in the Void she managed to track him down. Her eyes fall on him before he has a chance to react and she gives him that patented smirk before she crosses to him and sits down across from him.

"Varric," she says, her tone somewhere between disgusted and scandalized. It does something to him, makes his brain stop and then start again. He blinks at her stupidly, trying to figure out how she knows his name, but he decides it doesn't matter and goes on the offensive.

"Cassandra," he replies. If it shocks her, she doesn't show it, though the smirk does fall a bit.

"You have to come back," she says, her tone brooking no argument. He half expects her to lift him over her shoulder in a fireman carry and drag him back kicking and screaming to that little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop.

"Ain't gotta do nothing, Sweet Cheeks, but stay short and die," he answers, and as if to emphasize his point he tips his tankard back and drains it dry in one long gulp. Her lip curls slightly and her eyebrow raises, and he can't tell if she's amused or disgusted; maybe they're the same thing for her. He raises a hand and motions for Norah. "You want one?" he asks Cassandra, and she raises her shoulder in a half-shrug.

"Why not?" she replies. Varric signals he needs two ales and in a moment, they arrive at the table. They sit in an awkward silence then, neither of them looking at each other, and the awkwardness is only diffused when some of the regulars Varric recognizes but can't remember the names of challenge them to Wicked Grace.

They're three games in, Varric has the largest pot, and Cassandra sighs heavily. "I can never remember if three daggers are better than three serpents," she says.

"Andraste's tits, Sweet Cheeks, how many times do I have to tell you not to announce your hand?" he asks, "And hold your cards back where the idiot to your left can't see them."

Cassandra shifts, glaring down at the man to her left. She draws and plays the Angel of Death, ending the game, and Varric, no surprise, wins another round. The guy to her left passes out before the next hand can be dealt, and slowly the other regulars decide to wander out into Lowtown. It's late, probably too late for someone like Cassandra to be walking alone through Lowtown. Varric's debating offering to walk her home when she surprises him by flagging over Norah and ordering another ale on his tab.

"You owe me," she explains, "for allowing you to win."

Varric laughs, a deep rumble that surprises him in its sincerity and she smiles at him and for half a second, he thinks that he'd do anything to see an actual smile from her again. He shakes that thought from his foggy mind and forces it to think of something clever to say. "Sure hope you're a better poet than you are card shark," he says.

"I'm not a writer," she protests.

"Everyone who goes to those sorts of things is a writer. No other reason to be there," he says with a shrug. The passed-out man beside her snorts and reaches for her arm. She slides further down the bench, gives the man another look, and then moves so that she's sitting next to Varric rather than across from him.

"I came for the coffee," she answers, and Varric chuckles. The coffee is mediocre at best, but he's not going to challenge it. "I stayed because you were reading."

"Maybe the first time, but you kept coming back."

"I did," she agrees. Varric's suddenly aware she's sitting close, their thighs are nearly touching, and he can feel the heat of her rolling off in waves and penetrating his clothing almost as if he's not wearing any. She's half leaning on the table, forearms flat against the wood, and he realizes she's basically his height. He sways forward as if being pulled by some invisible force, but he manages to stop himself.

He doesn't manage to back up, though. She shifts slightly, and his eyes lock with hers, honeyed amber meeting dark chocolate; there's a moment of indecision, the feeling of hanging on a precipice, and then she surges forward, lips pressing against his fiercely. He freezes in shock, but then her lips part, and she makes this half-desperate little noise, and it's all he can do to stop himself from crawling into her lap in a _wholly undignified_ way.

Varric manages to tangle one hand into her short hair and pull her closer, his tongue taking her parted lips as an invitation. She slides closer to him and he moves to straddle the bench, all without breaking the kiss; her hands seem to be all over him, stroking his chest and arms like she can't get enough. She's smaller than he imagined, and he realizes it when one of his large hands moves to her waist; she feels tiny but strong and Varric can help but wonder if she could hold him down. His cock gives an interested little jump at the thought.

She finally breaks the kiss to catch her breath, and she nips at his bottom lip, an action which wakes up _every_ part of him and causes him to groan. Her hands move to his face and she's leaning back in for more, but before their lips can even brush Corff is calling, "oy! You two! Take it somewhere else!"

He stops himself from shooting the man a rude gesture. Cassandra's face falls, the blush creeping from her neck upward at an impressive speed. "I've got a room upstairs if-"

"Yes," Cassandra interrupts.

He takes one of her hands, leading her up the stairs, and he's silently cursing their height difference because normally, he'd be pressed against her kissing her and touching her, but it doesn't quite feel right. He's thinking too much about the fact he's never done this with a human before; she's so long and thin, and he can't quite work out the _how_ even though his body has already worked out the other details.

The door opens and closes behind them, and Varric nearly starts talking, but Cassandra stops him. She's leaning down to kiss him, and his head is tilted up, and the dynamic is _weird_ , but oh so good, and his cock jumps to let him know it definitely doesn't mind the change. Her hand is on his shoulder as she begins leading him backward. The bed is closer than he remembers, and he sits on it with a huff; Cassandra wastes no time in climbing in his lap.

She takes his face in her hands again and nips at his bottom lip, and when his cock jumps again, this time her hips snap forward, and she grinds into him a small moan leaving her. His hands slide over her body as they kiss, and she works her hips against him. She's gasping and whimpering as his hands cup her breasts, small and firm - barely a handful for him - but as his hands move to her ass and give it a squeeze to pull her closer, she gasps breathily, "Varric!"

Cassandra pulls his hair free and her hands tangle in it, tugging roughly, as her hips work against him, and he's shocked at how close he is already and they're not even naked, but there's something about the thought of her riding him until she cums that has him desperately leaking in his boxers. His hands move under her shirt and he nearly rips it off of her as she pulls back a little to help him. She tugs at his shirt and he ducks forward to help her get it off. He normally takes his time with this part, wants to get an eyeful of the woman he's about to enjoy, but with Cassandra, there's no time to admire her; his _need_ for her is so desperate he's afraid it won't ever be sated.

His fingers are nimble enough that her bra falls off seconds later, and as soon as it's removed, she surprises him by running her hands through his chest hair and tugging it gently. There's a weird sort of pain/pleasure sensation that jolts through his body and he makes a noise that isn't entirely a moan or a growl. They crash back together imperatively, their kisses so hard, Varric's almost positive his lips are bleeding.

Cassandra's nails scrape down his back and he lets out a "fuck!" that he didn't expect. Her eyes lock with his, wide and predatory, and he realizes she's wondering if she went too far. He responds with a growl and he plunges forward to take her already hard nipple in his mouth. His teeth scrape against it gently as he sucks. "Oh Maker," she gasps, and one hand tangles into his hair again, nails scraping against his scalp. The other rests gently on his shoulder.

His thick but nimble fingers pop open the button on her jeans and unzip the fly, and without preamble he shoves his hand down the front, his thick fingers struggling to inch closer to her clit. When he finds it, swollen and hard, he rubs it, and her hips snap forward as she lets out a moan. "Varric," she groans huskily, and it only encourages his fingers to work in a circle. She's so wet, her panties are drenched, and even though he hasn't managed to work a finger inside of her, his fingers are slick and hot. He lets out a moan.

Her thighs tighten against his and her hand clenches at his scalp; he can feel the tension in her body building as she arches, eyes closed, head thrown back in ecstasy. She's dissolved into a string of moans and curses, and Varric thinks he's never heard anything so lovely in his life. And suddenly, like the snap of a bow, she is cumming, her moans heighten to a scream, and he shoves his fingers forward, plunging a thick digit into her clenching cunt so he can feel her come undone.

Cassandra collapses against him a moment later, gasping for air, as he's still gently stroking her hole, and he can't help but laugh. "That take the edge off, Sweet Cheeks?" he asked huskily.

She moaned in reply, but it only seems to take her a few seconds to recover. "You'll pay for that, dwarf," she grumbles, and Varric can't keep the smirk off his face, because he can't help but believe the way she wants to make him pay is a way he'll really enjoy. She rolls off of him, boneless and collapses onto the bed. Varric seizes the moment to straddle her and kiss her deeply. She returns the kiss, slow and blissful, and Varric slides between her legs as he pulls down her jeans and panties, removes her boots and socks, and sets them all to the side.

She's laying there fully naked and on display, and now he takes the time to look at her, really look at her. Her dark eyes are even darker than normal, pupils wide, and half-lidded. She's riding the endorphins from her orgasm pretty hard if the lazy grin on her face is any indication. Her arms and abs and legs are chiseled, the body of a warrior and Varric wonders what the hell this princess is doing with a body like this.

His eyes follow the trail of dark hair leading from her navel down to the thick patch of curls and he finds himself falling to his knees and pulling her to the edge of the bed before he can stop himself. Her legs are over his shoulders, and he dives in and inhales her scent. "Oh!" she gasps in surprise, but her hand slides down her stomach and a moment later she is biting her bottom lip and spreading herself for him, and he's dragging his tongue through the arousal that's gathered from her clit to her cunt.

He starts at her clit, sucking and nipping and tonguing at the hard nub eagerly, and it's not long before her other hand has worked its way to the back of his head and she's both pulling his hair, and holding his face closer to her. His chin is drenched with her wetness, and her hips are jerking, and her thighs are tightening to the point he's pretty sure he's going to pass out if things keep going this way.

His hands slide under her ass and lift her up closer, and her eyes actually roll back into her head as she fucks his mouth. It's quite possibly the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen: her olive skin glinting with sweat, and her hair plastered to her forehead, and every single muscle pulled taut. She digs her heels into his back and tugs and whines, and he can tell she's almost there, but it isn't enough. She's getting frustrated. He moans against her and her hips snap again; he shifts one of his hands, his thumb pushes into her and her whine gets louder, close to a scream. He moves his thumb slowly, almost lazily in comparison to the pace of his tongue, and when he finally presses against that bundle of magical nerves, she finally does scream.

By the time she comes down from the aftershocks, he's so hard he thinks he might pass out, and he's kicking off his boots and shoving his pants down eagerly. He's nearly inside of her, the head of his cock just at her entrance when she lets out a soft "wait!" He can't help it, he whines, and his eyes are wide, and he's half afraid she's going to say, 'thanks for the orgasms; we're done for the night.' Instead, though, she licks her lips, and rolls over, shoves her ass in the air, her legs spread wide, forearms on the bed, and says, "fuck me like this."

Maker's mercy, he almost spills right there.

He takes a couple of deep breaths and steels himself as he climbs on the bed. He has to adjust her slightly, but she's strong and flexible, and easily falls where he needs her. He presses a hand into her lower back as he enters her from behind and for a moment, Varric forgets to breathe. She's tight around his thick prick, and she moans her pleasure and pushes back at the same moment he pushes forward, and the result is that he slams home into her with more force than he'd intended.

His eyes roll into the back of his head and he lets out a strangled moan as she clenches around him and shouts, "fuck yes! Fuck me hard."

Varric thinks he's probably died and none of this is real, but at that particular moment, he can't seem to care. The pace they set is brutal, and she's pushing back to meet every thrust eagerly. His heart is hammering in his chest and they're both pouring sweat. They're drenched, both of them from head to toe, and he's not sure what is sweat and what is her and what is his own pre-cum. He's moaning deeply as he leans forward to put a hand on her shoulder, still driving into her. His balls are pulled up tight, and he knows he's not going to last long. She must feel it in how impossibly hard he's grown, in the way his dick has thickened and lengthened, because she shifts slightly and shoves her hand between them. He can feel her fingers working her clit, and a moment later, light explodes behind his eyes.

He's vaguely aware of her clenching around him, of her moans, of the feeling of her body shake again, but he's pretty sure he blacked out because it all seems too far away to be true. When he comes to, he's laying beside her and they're both panting, aftershocks coursing through their bodies, and Varric can't help it, he just starts laughing.

"What?" Cassandra asks, still breathless from beside him.

"I don't know," he answers, and she chuckles with him.

 

* * *

 

She surprises him by curling up next to him rather than immediately leaving once they've cleaned up and built a fire; his arm slips around her and she lays her head on his shoulder. One of her long legs wraps around him, and her hand is playing with his chest hair, and Varric can't stop himself from grinning like a fool. He presses a kiss to her forehead. He loses track of how long they lay like that, and he's pretty sure they both doze on and off.

He almost doesn't hear it when she says softly, "Varric?"

"Mmm, yeah, Sweet Cheeks?" he asks giving her a squeeze.

"I have to ask you something."

"Okay," he agrees, even though her tone already has a lump forming in his throat.

"Do you promise you won't get mad?" Her voice is small, much smaller than he imagined it ever could be, and he knows now… this is it. This is when the good thing comes back to bite him in the ass. This is when it all comes crashing down.

"Yeah," he says.

She clears her throat and says, with more authority than he anticipated, "Varric, where is Hawke?"

He tenses, his hand gripping her waist tightly. He wasn't expecting to be asked that, at all, and it catches him off-guard. "Ask me anything but that," he says slowly.

"Please, Varric, tell me." The authority is gone, and her words are a nearly breathless whisper against his neck. He closes his eyes and swallows hard. The sense of doom he'd felt earlier is crashing down on him.

"I don't know," he answers, the words thick in his throat.

She sits up, pulls her knees to her chest. "I… I _need_ you to tell me," she pleads. He's looking at the smooth expanse of her back, all olive skin, and sculpted muscle. He should have known it was too good to be true.

"Sorry, Sweet Cheeks, but I can't. I don't know where he's at," he repeats.

She shifts and reaches for her jeans, hand rifling in the pocket, and she tosses something square and heavy onto his lap. "I need you to tell me," she repeats as he sits up and takes the black leather folio into his hand. He knows what it is before he looks, but he can't stop himself from flipping it open. The badge is shiny, even in the dimness of the room, bright Silverite glinting in the firelight. _Detective Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast_ , the ID declares.

It snaps shut louder than he intended, and she jumps. Boy, he sure can pick 'em can't he? "Well, shit." She doesn't say anything, doesn't move, doesn't look at him. "Seeker, I can't tell you what I don't know," he repeats, his tone short as he tosses the badge back at her lap. "Was that _all_ this was about then? Get close to me to get closer to him?"

"No," she protests, eyes wide at the accusation. "No, I never… I wasn’t supposed to… this wasn't-"

"Just stop," he interrupts; he can't stand to listen to her protests, no matter how heartfelt they sound. "What now?" he asks.

"Tomorrow, I return with a warrant for your arrest as an accomplice in an act of terrorism. I'll have search warrants for your rooms here and the Tethras estate; we'll seize your assets and a forensic accountant will try to connect your money to anything illegal that we can hold you on, which I'm almost positive we'll find, given the connections to the Carta I've already uncovered," she began.

He nods. "Okay then, see you tomorrow."

"Varric-"

"Get out."

"But-"

"I SAID GET OUT!"

 

* * *

 

He's not sure how long he's been there as they comb through his belongings and his financial records trying to find anything, they can to warrant holding him. They're trying to use his own book to convince a judge he's guilty of some crime, but he had his publisher market it as fiction for a reason. The room is concrete, and the table and chairs are metal, and his butt has gone numb from sitting for so long.

They sent in someone who wasn't Seeker to question him. She had red hair and was pretty _and_ pretty dangerous, but she wasn't his type, not that it mattered anyway. He refused to talk, and they can't hit him. He keeps asking for Cassandra, all professional-like ("I won't talk to anyone but Seeker Pentaghast"), but he's just about to give up hope and accept the fact she stepped back from the investigation when she opens the door.

He's been pacing, and he casually leans against the wall and looks her up and down as she enters the room. She freezes inside the door and scowls, but he shoots her a grin. "They can't find anything, can they?" he asks with a shrug. She doesn't answer, but the scowl deepens.

She sits at the table across from his empty chair. "Have a seat, Master Tethras."

"No thanks, I've been sitting a while," he replies.

"Sit down!" she snaps and although he rolls his eyes, he complies.

"I need you to tell me where Garrett Hawke is," she says.

"I can't. I don't know," he replies.

"Then, Master Tethras, I need to inform you the Chantry is willing to drop your charges if you tell us everything you know about the events leading up to and including the terrorist bombing of the Kirkwall Chantry, particularly Garrett Hawke's involvement," she answers.

He doesn't think she means it, not really. "Everything?"

"Everything," she confirms.

He chuckles. "Alright, then, Seeker, I hope you have enough tape."

 

* * *

 

The story is basically the Tale of the Champion, but all of the unsavory details he couldn't leave in for public consumptions are in this version. He starts from the beginning, talking about how he met Garrett Hawke when the kid was a bright-eyed optimist fresh off the boat (literally) seeking refuge. He talks about how Kirkwall began wearing down at him almost from the beginning, eroding at his moral compass faster than starving wolves descending on an unsuspecting nug. He explained, in as much detail as he could, how Hawke had saved them all – not only their Merry Band of Idiots – but every single last one of them, over and over again.

He talks so long his voice goes hoarse, and they have to break for food and water and trips to the bathroom. Every so often, someone brings him coffee. He starts to gain an audience, standing room only in the concrete box with fluorescent lights, which he knows means the room on the other side of the one-way mirror is packed. Seeker hangs on every word, leaning forward, lips parted, eyes wide, and if he squints, he can kind of imagine they're in a dimly lit coffee bar and he's at a microphone on a stage.

Somewhere around the middle of the second act, he derails the main story to focus on Hawke and Anders, and how they fell in love. He talks about their friendship, the barely concealed attraction, the almost palpable magnetism that made him want to yell at them to just get on with it already. He tells - in detail - the utter joy they all felt when Hawke and Anders did, indeed, finally get on with it.

He weaves a tale of hope and love and triumph and victory, stained and darkened by loss and corruption and terrible betrayal. He's pretty sure there's not a dry eye in the place as he describes the last conversation he ever witnessed between Hawke and Anders as Sebastian screamed at Hawke to kill the man he loved as if it would just be a simple thing to do. He describes the horror and confusion which permeated Kirkwall as the Chantry burned and Meredith's insane Templars began attacking without hesitation. He details the way Hawke's voice cracked as he told Anders to go and the tears which didn't seem to stop flowing for days.

"When I wrote the ending to _The Tale of the Champion_ , I spun Hawke's choice to leave to find Anders as some noble pursuit of love, but I didn't really get it, you know? I'm a pretty forgiving guy, and I can – and do – take a lot of shit in my relationships, but I couldn't imagine excusing someone for such a deep betrayal. Not then. But now? I dunno, that's probably the difference between thinking you love someone and actually love someone," he says. He pauses to take a drink of water. His throat is scratchy again, and he's almost positive it's because the air is dry, and he's been talking so long, and not because he's talking about Hawke and Anders.

"I'm not saying if you actually love someone you should let them walk all over you, but… I don't know. Maybe there's something to be said for the possibility of forgiving something that big. There's something to be said for looking past the fact the man you love has been driven further out of his mind by the spirit/demon thing that's possessed him and still going to him so that you can be together at the end. Right? Cause that's how it's gonna end for them. Either the taint or the spirit/demon thing is gonna burn Anders up, and… whatever time they have left shouldn't be interrupted. Hawke's given us all enough. He should get some time."

He takes another drink and then shoves the glass to the middle of the table. Cassandra is still watching him closely, chocolate eyes eying him critically. "And that is. From beginning to ending. Everything I know. Hawke is somewhere with Anders, but where, I don't know. Haven't heard from him in years. But even if I _did_ know, I wouldn't tell you. So… that's it, Seeker. Am I good to go?"

Her jaw clenches, the expression on her face shifts from enchanted to irritated, and she rubs her tired eyes. "Yes," she says reluctantly, "and your property will be transferred back to your custody within 48 hours." Varric stands and stretches, unable to keep a smirk off his face. "But, Master Tethras, do not leave Kirkwall. We may have further need of you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Seeker," he replies with a wink.

 

* * *

 

His muse comes back to him with a fierceness he can't ignore, and he finds himself typing out prose well into the early morning every night for weeks. He forgets to sleep and eat properly. It's as if re-telling the Tale of the Champion the way it was supposed to have been told was a catharsis… or maybe it was just telling it to Seeker. Whatever it is, at the end of this outpouring of words, he has the first draft of the newest installment to Swords and Shields, which he'd swore he'd never write. He sends an email to his publisher and receives an enthusiastic reply for him to send over the manuscript.

But it doesn't stop there. Words are pouring out from him like blood from a wound, and soon he has short stories and scenes that will never get published and he doesn't know what to do with them until he realizes, he _has_ to go back, even though he doesn't want to.

Thursday night, nearly three months after he last read, he walks into a dimly lit coffee shop and orders a black coffee so they won't kick him out. It's not quite like coming home to The Hanged Man, but it's close. Several people tell him they missed him and ask if he's reading tonight, and he nods and tells them all that he's got a few new things he's thinking about reading. He adds himself to the list after a few other authors arrive trying to firmly plant himself in the middle of the pack. He sips his coffee and catches himself looking for Seeker. He can't help but wonder if she'll show up.

He gives up when he gets to the small platform they call a stage, adjusts the mic, and hops up onto the stool, and she's still not there. He's not sure why he expects her to be there. It's clear she was only there for one thing, and now that she knows he isn't in contact with Hawke, she's not interested. He tries not to let his disappointment show as he takes his reading glasses from the inside pocket of his blazer.

"It's been a while," he says and someone in the audience whistles. "I hit a writer's block and had used up all my old stuff, so I took a break. When it came back, though, it really came back, and unless something crazy happens, I'll be around regularly again. I've, uh, been debating about what to read, because I've got so much." He takes his phone out of his pocket scrolls through his docs clicking on one and letting it load. "But I think I finally decided." There's a noise from the back of the room, the door opens and a tall, lean figure steps through the door, and it clicks shut again.

"I've decided to try for something completely different." Her head snaps up as she hears his voice and for a moment, Varric forgets to breathe. He slides his phone back into his pocket after locking it, and instead reaches into the same pocket he had his glasses in and pulls out a single sheet of paper folded into a tiny rectangle. His eyes follow her as she moves to the bar and orders a drink. "This is uh… it's a poem. I don't do poetry, you guys know that, but… I tried. And it's terrible, so be gentle. This is called _Muse_."

> "Her eyes  
>  Wide and dark as chocolate  
>  Drink in the sight of me as much as  
>  Her ears  
>  Drink in the sound of me as much as  
>  Her skin  
>  Drinks in the feel of me.  
>  She leans in  
>  Lips parted, breath shallow, chest heaving  
>  I no longer write for you  
>  Or even for me,  
>  It's for her.
> 
> Her pleasure  
>  Sharp and sweet as pomegranate  
>  Commands my mind as much as  
>  Her desires  
>  Command my body as much as  
>  Her will  
>  Commands my soul.  
>  She arches  
>  Nails digging, moans echoing, body trembling.  
>  I no longer exist for you  
>  Or even for me  
>  It's for her."

The silence hangs thick in the air as he finishes the last word. He knows she's still there, but he can't look; he can't even force himself to acknowledge whether or not the audience is applauding as he folds the paper and shoves it and his glasses into his pocket. He’s flushing with embarrassment, can't believe he actually had the _balls_ to read that aloud in public, to her, and it's suddenly way too hot in the coffee shop to stay there. He practically runs outside, ignoring everyone and everything he can; he doesn't stop until cold air hits his face and he can breathe in the cool, salty breeze.

"Varric!" His name is tinged with hints of scandal and disgust, and he freezes in place. Wouldn't do any good to run anyway, she'll only track him down again.

"Seeker," he says, turning to face her. He tries to force his eyes not to sweep up her long legs to her face, but they don't cooperate.

"Varric," she repeats as if she's forgotten she's already said it. "The Chantry needs you, again."

He sighs heavily. "Look, there's nothing more I can tell you."

She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him so hard he swears he can physically feel it. He's pretty sure a punch coming from her would hurt less, which is saying something. "We are not asking for that. You are to come with me. To Ferelden. The Divine is facilitating negotiations between the mages and Templars-"

Varric laughs. "How am I supposed to help with that?"

"You _have_ to do something. This is your fault, you and your – what did you call them? - Band of Merry Idiots?"

"Sure, sure. But I'm a dwarven merchant. Why would anyone listen to me? Unless… oh. _Oh_. Seeker, are you asking me to move in with you?" he asks.

"Of course not!" She scowls and he grins, taking a step closer to her, and then another and another; her eyes widen, and she takes a step back as Varric keeps getting closer. She lets out an undignified squeak when her back hits the wall of the coffee shop. He'd backed her into an alley, and she nearly falls into a fighting stance on instinct.

He manages to avoid getting hit when his hand moves to her waist and his thumb begins to stroke her hip gently. Her eyes close tight and she inhales sharply and Varric reaches up, his other hand tangling in her hair as he pulls her down to his level. "Tell me what you want, and I'll consider coming with you," he whispers.

"You," she answers, but the sound of it is torn desperately from her throat, and he swallows it with a kiss. He pushes a thigh up between her legs and pulls her down roughly, grinding it against her until she lets out the same desperate moan that had been haunting his dreams for weeks.

He lets her go and drops to his knees, not giving a damn that he's in a dirty alleyway or that they're barely concealed by shadows. He manages to get into her jeans faster than he can pick a lock, and he pushes the fabric down to her thighs eagerly. He buries his face in her curls, his lips encircling her clit without hesitation.

"Varric!" she gasps, and this time she's thoroughly scandalized, and he lets out a deep chuckle that he knows will send vibrations straight to the core of her.

For all of her pretending to be scandalized, she grasps him by the hair and pulls him closer, and nips and sucks and licks at her like a man starved. The sounds she's making are not as loud as she was in his room at The Hanged Man, and he drags his eyes up to see her; she's got a hand over her mouth and appears to be biting it, and it's the fucking sexiest thing he's seen since he first got her half-naked in front of him. The nub has hardened beneath his tongue, and he pushes and licks and strokes it until her whole body is pulled as tight and hard as it has. She tugs his hair and lets out a strangled scream as she begins to shake. She starts to collapse, and he catches her, holding her tight as she shatters to pieces in his arms. There's blood on her lips from where she bit her hand and tears in her eyes, but she's staring at him with such trust that Varric thinks he might cum in his pants without even being touch.

She moans softly and starts trying to pull her pants up, and he can't help but laugh at the boneless attempt. "There you are, Seeker, come back to me," he whispers.

"I hate you," she spits vehemently, "and don't call me that."

"Okay, Muse," he replies just as quickly. Her eyes narrow at him and she shoves him away as she stands shakily. He's already helping her dress again, even though he's still on his knees looking up at her, and he can't help but feel like a man worshiping at the feet of a goddess. "So… Ferelden, huh?" he asks. "I hope it doesn't actually smell like wet dog and turnips."

 

* * *

 

They're on the sofa, Varric sitting up, reading glasses on as he types out a new rough draft. Cassandra's feet are on his lap, just in front of his laptop, and she shifts slightly as she reads his newest manuscript. She sighs heavily and lets the heavy paper fall to her chest.

"Your poem was awful, you know?" she asks, and Varric chuckles. They've had this same conversation so many times in the past six months.

"It worked, didn't it, Muse?" he counters with a smirk as he turns his amber eyes to her. They start at her bare feet and work their way up her long, lean legs, and her tight abs, and round breasts, all the way to her gorgeous face.

She makes a disgusted noise, and Varric smiles because he knows that means he's won. "Your prose is only _marginally_ better," she counters. "This manuscript, for example, the sex scene is impossible! No two people are strong enough to pull off that position."

He raises an eyebrow at her and licks his lips. "Ohhh… I don't know. I think we could pull it off." She doesn't respond, just narrows her chocolate eyes at him critically. "You… uh… wanna try it out?"

"Maker, yes!" she exclaims, and she nearly takes out his laptop as she leaps from the sofa.

He doesn't do poetry, but at that moment, as he watches her saunter eagerly to the bedroom, he knows, there's nothing he wouldn't do for her.


End file.
